


i'm not sure if i'm sorry

by if_my_classmates_find_this_im_screwed (onetwothree_pleaseendme)



Category: Homestuck, Original Work
Genre: .rose is called annie here because r e a s o n s, Gen, POV Second Person, Unreliable Narrator, aLSO THE CHARACTER MAY ALSO BE NAMED ROSE BUT IT ISN'T ROSE LALONDE IM SO SORRY, and also, at like, can you tell i have no idea how kingdoms or justice systems or whatever work, i mean this clearly has Prospit and Derse but, i mean. .rose is pretty much always an unreliable narrator to me, i mean.... if there are any who actually read this drivel lmao, i want to delay posting this as much as i can but i also desperately need validation so, i wrote this instead of doing my five overdue school projects, i'd do research but i have a mountain of stuff to procrastinate doing, lower case on purpose, oook ill stop now, please help me!!, r.i.p me, say yo in the comments if you're actually reading anything, this is probably not really Homestuck?, three fucking a.m, yee my second posted work!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:10:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12031755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetwothree_pleaseendme/pseuds/if_my_classmates_find_this_im_screwed
Summary: you can't decide whether the room is hot or cold. you can't decide on a topic to distract yourself with.but you could decide on one thing and it's led you to this situation, handcuffed and smiling at your sister while she looks at you, the word 'traitor' on her tongue.she does not say it and you think it's worse.





	i'm not sure if i'm sorry

  
  
your name is annie and you don't know how, you don't know why, but you're handcuffed and staring your sister dear down with the most easy going, uncaring, shit-eating, manic grin you've got.  
  
it's early morning, the blue outside lightening by the minute, and her voice is steady as she says "Prince of Prospit, accused of high treason against the Prospitian Kingdom. Conspiring with a Dersite Agent, secret meetings with Dersite royalty; an attempted assassination of your own brother." her eyes are cold and all of you is, too. you're cold and unfeeling and you know she is.  
  
you can smell the food the chefs are cooking. you wonder if there was some sort of event scheduled for today you weren't notified of, if their suspicions of you started from months before this moment. the banners behind your sister flutter with the wind wafting in though the windows, the floor is cool even with your covered feet. it's cold. you don't know where the heat went. Maybe the cooks have taken it all.  
  
Or maybe it's all gone into the rage inside your sister, the betrayal she must feel. she's smarter than you are. she'll figure this out before something terrible happens. she asks, "How do you plead?" and you tilt your head right-wise, taking on an exaggerated look of contemplation.  
  
rose. it wasn't quite one of your favorite flowers, but you were still fond of them; you have multiple pots of them in your room. [your room. what will they do to your room? what will they do with your belongings?] They had thorns that would prick you, sometimes you wouldn't notice them until you stained something and would sigh as the blood seeped.  
  
your name is rose.  
  
your name is rose and annie and ryan and ree, and nicknames you can't remember the origin of.  
  
your name is an undefined value, your existence a virus- or an unknown element. you're auxiliary, an accessory, to the Kingdom of Prospit, the Kingdom of Good and Light and all things children's books would proclaim as the traits to win a princess's heart, to slay a dragon, to befriend a foe.  
  
none of your childhood books made it to your teenage years. you are fifteen now, standing accused of high treason before your sister and smiling at her; you think back on names and memories associated with them and when you were first called big brother, little sister, middle sibling, Heir to the throne. you won the heart of the princess before you with abrasive words, loud voices and manic laughter; with your three a.m rambling and near comical amounts of flora accumulated and your sad, sad face looking into a cup of too-sweet coffee. you did not slay a dragon but have nearly killed your dearest brother, youngest of you three, the Prospitian Golden Children, miraculously woken up from a perilous fate, an eternal slumber. the word eternal burns in your mind, tasted and will still taste bitter on your tongue- reminiscent of the poison-laced coffee you smiled offering your brother, the one you drank the entirety of after faking and switching your mug with his, 'aw man i made yours better!'  
  
for this friend turned foe you have lost her trust. you have lost everything. your kingdom, your status, your family and friends and your room and your plants, and your eyeglasses, and your turntable and shitty vinyl, and your books and your lanterns and your trinkets, and your arts and crafts projects and your popsicle stick house and your sewing kit, and your hoodies and your scarves and your camera and laptop and photos and all the drawings you've made, the stories you've written.  
  
the gold of the thrones behind her are too bright.  
  
you wonder what shall be written of you.  
  
"Speak."  
  
you let out a sort of laugh. "patience," you say, injecting a slight air of mockery. your smile fades. you keep looking her in her eyes, both your heads held up high- as royalty should, not backing down. stand tall, both calculating and cold and precise and c r u e l.  
  
cruelty is not what is advertised but this is a war, everywhere is a battlefield of its own. this room, the Throne Room, filled with trophies of participation and endless carving of stories old and grand and incomprehensible with time; memories of hiding behind banners, of choosing colours for your own.  
  
you chose this.  
  
"guilty of all charges."  
  
you've lived with her for years, spent your time studying her and your brother both; you lie and have been lied to but you know there is none other than you in the universe who have lying come so easily to them. easy as breathing, as blinking, in that you are so tired by merely being that each small idiosyncrasy, instance, second, action, is exhausting and overwhelming.  
  
but you can't stop. she isn't stopping but she does, to you, at least, you notice. you always do and everything stops, the light outside, the wind, the breaths and the conversations and the memories of good times and your life will stop.  
  
the banners stop fluttering. she exhales with a slight stutter, left thumb twitching the slightest bit.  
  
perhaps your response was unexpected. maybe you have deviated from the path she thought you would take. but then, that would be wishful thinking.  
  
"You shall stand trial before the King and Queen, before the Council and the Advisors and the Kingdom in its entirety." her eyes are burning you from the inside out but your feet are still cold. "You understand the depth and breadth of your actions. You shall take responsibility, and not run like the coward you must be."  
  
the guards on either side of you tighten their hold. the chefs aren't talking as loudly, now, but you can still smell the food. something's burning. it smells like chicken, and beef and pork and rice, and the type of porridge nearly all the kids at the Central Sect Orphanage loves.  
  
today was supposed to be a visitation.  
  
you wonder if they'll remember you when they've grown. you wonder how they'll remember you. how they'll treat your memory.  
  
your throat closes up but you force out "hey," smiling sunny and voice unwavering and nothing's wrong and you look at her like you two were just listening to some track you'll end up converting to mp3 but there's an edge to it, now, "don't i get some sort of consolation prize?"  
  
she clenches her jaw. teeth gritted. she composes herself, says "Take him to the cells," to the guards flanking you, and then addresses you. "You will be staying there for an undetermined amount of time until the Trial starts. Attempt escape and your guards shall assess what to do."  
  
said guards tug on you and there's a cold feeling in your chest. you smell something burning. the hallway echoes with the tapping of shoes on the floor, the banners and engravings passing you by.  
  
before you're gone you sneak a look at your Throne.  
  
she's looking at it, too. you look away.  
  
smile.  
  
[you lied. you know exactly how you came to be handcuffed. of course you did. you lied so pretending you were as chipper as you always were would come easy, easier; you hate this and you're almost grateful for your sure execution.]

  
  


[almost.]


End file.
